ashes, ashes
by ink-stained dreams
Summary: And she figured out that only if you keep moving fast enough can you keep from falling. Gin n' Tonic, among others.
1. there she goes

**Written for the Ring Around the Boyfriend Challenge by ToManyLetters on HPFC. Enjoy~**

* * *

><p>There was a game she played once, as a child, when her freckles broke the creamy skin of her face like surprise honey-drops, and she could smile without tasting venom between her tongue and the roof of her mouth. Her brothers pulled her outside, and she followed eagerly, wanting more than anything to be a part of them. To be accepted. (Now she knows better—if only you wait long enough, <em>they <em>will run to _you_.)

They all grasped hands, her and Ron and Fred and George, and they dragged her into a circular dance, keeping her moving even though she stumbled at first, and she slipped several times. They always pulled her up. And they chanted:

"_Ring around the rosie,_

_pocket full of posies,_

_ashes, ashes,_

_we all fall down_!"

As her brothers shouted the final word, they flung themselves to the grass, releasing their hands. They laughed for a while, all of them grinning, until they realized that she was still standing, her arms pulled up to her chin, her brown eyes large with confusion.

"Ginny, when you say 'we all fall down,' you kinda have to…you know, fall down," Fred and George said, overlapping words and completing each other's sentences like they always did, their voices rife with mockery.

"Why would I want to fall down?" She _knew_, even then—even before she had been taught the hard way that losing control was _dangerous_.

Ron rolled his eyes. "You just _do_. That's the whole point of the game."

"O-oh…okay then…" She was only a (stupid) little girl, and she wanted so _badly _to be a part of them.

"Look, we'll try it again—" Fred. "—and honestly, Ginny—" George. "—get it right this time." Both.

So they all clambered to their feet, and they pulled her into the dance again. She tried to keep up this time; she didn't stumble as much. And when they all yelled, "_Down_!" Ginny let the momentum carry her into the dirt. She giggled, because it was so _silly_. She decided she liked this game.

Then Ginny grew up; she covered her freckles with make-up, and she learned the power a smile could have. She stopped letting herself plummet for the simple sake of it, because that was how you got _hurt_.

And she figured out that only if you keep moving fast enough can you keep from falling.

* * *

><p><em>let's say we were better than our bodies were found<br>and I saw her but, there she goes, and there she goes  
>her bright face, black smile, we can't change that<em>

(**A Story for Supper—Lydia**)


	2. it starts like this

**Pairing: Tom/Ginny**

**Prompt: Blood**

* * *

><p><em>He <em>is where it all begins.

It starts out innocently enough—as innocent as a diary with a mind of its own _can _be, but she's just a stupid little girl, remember?—as she timidly records, in her eleven-year-old scrawl, her worries and hopes and dreams. And he writes back, is his too-beautiful, perfect script, all of his comfort and sympathy and friendship. Words that stoke her pride and convince her of the ridiculous notion that she can be _loved_. She learns to trust him, to give him her all and her everything, because, well, he's there, right? _He's _there when no one else is.

It's inevitable, really, that she falls in love with him.

* * *

><p>She sinks into the chair, biting her lip so hard she tastes blood, and paws through her bag clumsily, fumbling to pull out the diary. It falls open on the desk top, but she can't write anything. She can't find the words.<p>

A tear burns its way down her cheek and spirals onto the creamy page. After a moment, the circle of wetness fades into the paper.

_You're crying, Ginevra._

She nabs a quill and dips it in the inkwell, her hand trembling.

_Yes. _Sloppy, blotted, full of pain.

_Why? _Spiked, immaculate, inquiring.

_A boy._

_This Harry you always talk about, I assume._

_He will never notice me, Tom! I'll __never__ be anything to him. I'm just a little girl._

_Perhaps he doesn't deserve you, if he causes you so much hurt, Ginevra._

Her hearts twists and thaws. Tom will never hurt her. Tom will always be here.

_Can I trust you with something, Ginevra?_

_Of course._

_Emotions are wildly overrated. They weaken your will, and they leave you broken. Learn to control them and manipulate them, and you will be strong. _

_What about love? Isn't that worth anything?_

_Ah, Ginevra, that is the worst of them all. _

And she bites her lip again, and the new, tender scab breaks open, and a bright crimson splotch mars the page. She isn't looking, so she doesn't notice how quickly it disappears.

* * *

><p>Once, she almost tells him that she loves him. She gets <em>this <em>close. The quill is in her hand, and his words are just fading away. _You're my best friend, Tom. You are always here, and I think I might really like you._

But she stops herself, because he doesn't really _exist, _does he? (She really is such a stupid little girl.)

* * *

><p>Ginny wakes up tired, the way she always seems to these days, even though she goes to bed at reasonable hours. She rubs her eyes to try and dispel the heaviness clinging to her lids. Her hands smell like rust, and her palm twinges painfully. Frowning, she pulls them away, looking in bemusement at the thin, angry line across her right hand.<p>

"What the…"

She staggers to the bathroom and washes her hands, trying to rid them of that awful, sour smell. Having mildly woken up, she breathes deeply, and that is when her eyes catch on the diary. By the sink. She could have sworn by _Merlin _that she left it on her bedside table. One small, pale arm reaches towards it, and as she brings it up to her face, eyeing it suspiciously, she notices something else. It's hard to tell against the black binding, but she thinks the lower left corner is edged in red. She lifts it to her nose and inhales tentatively.

Rust.

She feels her stomach give an empty heave. Fleeing downstairs, she almost throws the diary down as she scrambles for a quill. She tears it open, writing hastily:

_Tom, what happened last night? Why is there blood on the cover?_

The words curl in, letter by letter, taking their own sweet time as they always do.

_You gave yourself a nasty paper cut, Ginevra, just before you went to bed. Don't you remember?_

She straightens up, lower lip trembling, hair all bed-tangled and wild. She is a frightened, alone little girl.

* * *

><p>Ginny's determination lasts one whole day.<p>

She is disgusted with herself; she is pathetic; she is such a _stupid little girl_.

Still, all of the self-abuse in the world can't stop her from fleeing back to the girl's bathrooms, slamming the stalls open, heart thump-thump-thumping in her too-small throat as she searches for it. But the familiar black binding is nowhere to be seen. It's not here.

She stands in the final stall, small white hands clenched into useless fists, with _stupid, little-girl_ tears coursing messily down her speckled cheeks. Her heart really breaks for the first time.

She has lost him.

* * *

><p>The second time her heart shatters is in the damp, dusky prison of the Chamber, lying on the stone floor. (<em>So cold, so cold, so cold—)<em>

She breathes slowly, each inhale stabbing her lungs. Water seeps through her robes and moves against her skull. Her eyes are dark, dark with the pain.

Her dark eyes are only for him.

He is not a surprise, really; of course he was going to be harshly, achingly handsome, just like his sharp, flawless words. It's his eyes that get to her: those pale, winter eyes. (_—so cold, so cold, so cold._) She had expected them to be warmer—to look at her with something more than that awful, distant mockery.

She wants to say the words that have been chasing her all year—"_I love you, Tom_."—so, so much. (Even now, even as he's _killing her_.) Her lungs almost burst with the effort.

She is too weak to speak, but he smiles as if he has heard her.

"I hate to say I told you so," he drawls, and his voice is so beautiful she wants to cry. "But, Ginevra, didn't I warn you about love?"

* * *

><p>Ginny is far, far gone by the time Harry comes in and saves her. She is close enough to death that she can almost smell the rancor. But still, when she wakes up, looking into green eyes instead of blue, she swears she can remember a part of herself dying in the blackness.<p>

And she never gets it back.

* * *

><p>After the second time, there is no heart left to break.<p> 


	3. empty chest empty eyes

**Pairing: Ginny/Neville**

**Prompt: Distraction**

* * *

><p>Summer always used to be Ginny's favorite season. Summer meant warmth and the smell of fresh laundry and her brothers coming home. Summer was light, gold, free, beautiful.<p>

But she hates this one.

Now all summer means is blinding brightness and the sound of silence and more eyes that she cannot escape. Summer is a burning red prison, and she can't take much more of this before her hair turns to flame and her skin starts to boil.

The summer after her first year, Ginny learns to never show her true feelings, because no one really wants to see them, no matter how much they ask. They will say, "How are you feeling today, Ginny?" And she mustnotcannotwillnot tell them how her heart is rotting way and she wakes up imagining her hands smell like blood. She will say, "Better," and it will be a lie, but both will ignore this.

(summer is never the same after that)

* * *

><p>She goes back to school foolishly believing that it will be different. (she's still a stupid little girl, really) Instead she only find more eyes<p>

staring

staring

STARING

and she cries about each night until she remembers:

"_Emotions are wildly overrated. They weaken your will, and they leave you broken_."

So at twelve years old, Ginny throws feelings out for good.

* * *

><p>When Ginevra Molly Weasley hits <em>thirteen, <em>why, everything changes. This girl has hips, this girl has legs, this girl has a smile that can kill.

That is when she fulfills the second part of Tom's advice:

"_Learn to control them and manipulate them, and you will be strong."_

(so that makes Ginny the strongest of them all)

* * *

><p>Neville asks in his trademark way: full of stutters and nerves.<p>

"A-ah, G-ginny…"

"Yes, Neville?"

"W-well I was wondering…just um…"

"…"

"Well what I want to—to say is…willyougototheYuleBallwithme?"

And she stares at him with empty, empty eyes, taking in the pigeon-toed stance and downcast gaze. He's older than her, yet he is a stupid little boy. (but wasn't she a stupid little girl once, too?)

"Yes."

* * *

><p>At the Ball, Ginny is beautiful; she is a whirling pillar of colored silk and brightbright hair and slender arms. Several boys are jealous of Neville, and doesn't she know it.<p>

She sees Harry's eyes catching on her from where he sits slumped at a table, unwilling to dance with the Patil girl. She feels the satisfaction fill her from head to toe, and it's as good as being with Harry himself. Better, even. (even if Harry isn't who she really wants, but let's just forget about that minor detail, shall we?)

She almost feels bad for dragging poor Neville along to get Harry to look at her, but it's hard to be sympathetic when you don't have a heart.

* * *

><p>The party is winding down, and Ginny's cheeks are sore with all of her careful grins and practiced laughter. Dancing with Neville, gathering the boys glances, she has somehow managed to stop thinking about her hollow chest for a while. The cavity is filled with the glitter of attention, the drunkenness of being <em>wanted<em>.

Too soon, too soon, she finds herself standing outside the common room, Neville bashfully staring at his feet. He looks up and mumbles a thank you, something about a good time, something presumably cute and endearing. And they're just standing there, and she is heady with the thrill of the night, so she leans forward and she kisses him. That's what you're supposed to do, right? But as soon as her youngsoft lips touch his stiffsuprised ones, she knows that this was the wrong choice. She pulls away quickly, remembering a marble mouth she so often dreamed of. Her not-heart twangs like a broken instrument. (two years hasn't changed a thing)

"I'm sorry," she says, because she knows she made him hope, and because she doesn't care about him at all, not even a little. It's impossible to love a distraction.

A regular, embarrassed (_normal_) girl would have fled up the stairs, but she walks up to her room unhurried, because a part of her is relishing the destruction she is leaving in her wake. Ginny has held a heart in the palm of her hand, and she has crushed it. It's wrong, terribly wrong. She wants to hate herself for such sadism. And far-too-familiar voice in her head whispers

"_So much better than love, isn't it, Ginevra?"_

_That_ is when she runs.

* * *

><p><strong>I'm not completely happy with this. :( I started it out with a rather different idea in mind, but then I realized I had to make it actually seem like a GinnyNeville chapter, not just a heartless!Ginny chapter. THEN I realized that I had totally forgotten about my prompt, so I kinda shoved it in at the last second. :P Not my best stuff-sorry guys.**

**Next on the list: Ginny/Dennis**


	4. armorless by night

**Pairing: Dennis/Ginny**

**Prompt: Tear**

* * *

><p>Ginny never had to deal with nightmares of him before, but after that whisper, they decorate her sleep like dandelions in an abandoned field.<p>

Oh, she had always _remembered _him in the night (honestly, how was she ever supposed to forget?), but that was all they were: memories. His moon-pale face, his mocking words, his forget-me-not eyes. They filled the space behind her eyelids as soon as she sank into the pillow. Memories that refused to go away.

But these are new—he moves in unexpected ways, he says things he's never said before, _he's alive again_.

The first one comes without warning, it attacks when she thinks herself safe.

"_Open your eyes, Ginevra."_

They snap apart so violently her tired eyes burn as she claws her way upright, her fingers smashing through—

—puddles?

Eyes like a rapid-shutter camera, skittering from place to place, and they tell her _pools of water, pillars of stone, a vast face stretching from ceiling to floor._ Her pulse hammers into hummingbird flight. And finally the eyes give her their last sorry message: _ink-black hair, paper-white skin, forget-me-not eyes_.

She buries her head into her hands; her fingernails dig into her scalp and bite the skin. And Ginevra Weasley—strong girl, beautiful girl, heartless girl—sobs against her palms, firetracks of tears scorching down her face.

(she is _only thirteen_, she is such a poor, frightened girl)

He laughs. The sound makes her ache in ways she never thought possible.

And oh, dear girl, the nightmare has not even _begun_.

* * *

><p>Michael is her first real boyfriend. He's the test subject, if you will; on him she practices her softest smiles and gentlest words; with him she learns how to set the price of a kiss and mold boys until they suit her. So if Ginny has to deal with his awkward embraces and far-too-dark eyes, it's alright, because she is getting the tools of a lifetime out of it.<p>

Fourteen, sweetheart, and she's as skilled as any mistress.

By Michael's side, Ginny also learns how to ignore the fact that none of them are what she want, will ever be what she wants. (too fair-haired, too golden-skinned, too smiling, too warm-eyed; they're wrong, wrong, wrong, all _wrong_)

* * *

><p>Ginny sneaks out at night not because she's a rebel and not because she's dedicated to the D.A. She has made this escapade a weekly ritual only to feel the sharp chill of her bare feet on the stone, to hear the wet thumping of her quickened heartbeat in her ears. It makes her believe, if briefly, that she's close to alive again. (it all fades in the morning, though, when she has to remember that she died three years ago surrounded by stone and water)<p>

She slips through the corridors, ghosting past Filch and his mangy feline, winding her way back to the Room of Requirement. She lets it take her to D.A. headquarters, where she obliterates and destroys until she feels dawn creeping into her bones. And then she runs back again—all agony-red hair and ghostly skin, like some fae creature fleeing the sunlight—before the day can drag down the darkness, wild-eyed, too breathless to remember how much she is hurting.

* * *

><p>She wakes up trapped in his stare.<p>

That happens a lot lately, far too often for it be the paranoid workings of her own mind. Ginny tries to swallow the lump suddenly lodged in her throat as she eases herself upright, her trembling arms bracing her against the slick stone. The sharp slashes of her collarbones jump out from beneath her pale skin as her breath hitches and quickens. Her heart stutters and her fingers clench and she wants to be anywhere, anywhere but here. She would look away if she could, but his frosted eyes hold her fast.

"Get up."

She doesn't want to—she doesn't, she doesn't—but she climbs to her feet anyway. (she lies to everyone, even herself: she jumps to his every word willingly)

His cold stare roves over her impassively; her stomach lurches as he releases her from his eyes, and she shivers. "You look so pale and thin, Ginevra. Haven't been sleeping well?" If she didn't know him better (but she knows him best of all; she's known him her whole life), she would almost think that was real concern in his voice. He's the finest of pretenders.

"Answer me," he commands.

"No," she whispers, her voice cracking. She is trembling like a leaf in the wind, and it disgusts her. What happened to heartless? What happened to fearless?

He strolls up to her, and she looks at the floor instead of his painfully close, all-too-beautiful face. The water ripples as his feet break the surface. He is less than a foot away. She swears her heart stops completely.

"Scared, Ginevra?"

And Ginny can't help it: she looks up and his dead eyes capture her and heat floods her throat and the back of her eyes. His pale mouth curves up into an uneven smirk as tears start to tremble on her lashes. He reaches up a hand and traces her cheekbone with the backs of his fingers. She shuts her eyes, letting out a quivering breath, and leans into it involuntarily, like a cat.

His hand disappears and she staggers forward, unbalanced. Her cheek burns like ice from the absence of his touch. Ginny's dark eyes waver under a film of tears.

"Why?" she asks, broken and hoarse. "Why can't you just leave?" Her voice rises with every word, echoing against the walls of the Chamber, coming back to her sounding no different than the desperate cry of an eleven-year-old girl, scared and lost and oh-so-alone.

Tom smiles for real now, and it makes her blood petrify. "You know you don't really want me gone, Ginevra. What would you do with yourself?" He takes a step forward, closing the distance between them again. His white fingers trap a tear as it makes an escape down her face. (and she tingles at his touch and it makes her want to die because _why can't she hate him like she's supposed to_?) "I took your blood, little girl. You are in me, and I am in you. I will never leave."

(the words kill her)

(the words save her)

* * *

><p>Ginny goes to the Headquarters because she has nowhere else to go; because the stone walls remind her of him; because there no one will hear her cry.<p>

She sits sprawled on the steps, the tears flying down her face unstoppably, as if making up for all the times she refused them. Ginny sobs and buries her face in her shaking hands and lets the inhuman sounds rip out of her. This is why she doesn't notice the door appear behind her or the boy who opens it and steps inside. But then he speaks—"Ginny?"—and she lurches to her feet, spinning around, viciously dragging her sleeves across her face.

"De-ennis, I-I…" It's no use trying to hide it, because her voice jumps spasmodically and her face feels raw and inflamed. So she sighs and closes her eyes for a moment. Then she looks at him again, the second year blindsided of this wild, tearful girl, and says quietly, "I'm sorry you have to see me like this. I'm fine, really."

"You're lying."

Ginny purses her still-trembling lips, squinting at him through her red-rimmed eyes. He is far too bold for a twelve-year-old.

"What's wrong, really?" he asks, but it sounds like a demand. Maybe because of the force in his voice or the fact that he's only a child or perhaps because the night has always made her weak, she tells him the truth.

"The person I…I—" _WantneedfearhateLOVE._ "—like…hates me." She licks her chapped lips and runs her hands through her bed-tangled hair. She walks (stumbles) back to the steps and sinks down because her legs refuse to support her broken body.

Dennis stands uncertainly, then sits beside her. "I thought _you_ were the one who broke up with Michael," he ventures, and she laughs, because _of course _he doesn't know, he'll never know, no one will ever know. But somewhere between dying and losing her heart, she must have forgotten what laughter really is, because it comes out twisted and sharp and not at all like what it's supposed to. And Dennis, poor little Dennis witness to this tragic breakdown, can tell that she didn't get it right, because he looks down and says nothing for a while.

Eventually, "Michael's stupid, then." Ginny looks at him, at his creeping blush and his little-boy fists. She might have smiled and left, on a better night. But he is only a child, a year older than she was when she surrendered her heart, and his little crush is so innocent. She is still tender-broken from her nightmare, and instead of sweeping from the room wordless and untouchable, she reaches over and plants a kiss on his forehead. She looks at him and half-smiles (she gets the smile wrong, too, she has forgotten the signs of real happiness now), and whispers, "Thank you."

And she leaves, and at the next D.A. meeting she is not so fragile, so she pretends the Dennis is just a stupid little boy, and not the one who saw her tears.

* * *

><p>(It will be eight years later when they will meet again and she will try to tie up their loose ends. She does not like people running around knowing how damaged she is. Of course the plan is skewed by the fact that he will find her alone in the park, made vulnerable by the darkness, with adult-quiet tears spangling her cheeks. Ginny will look up and not even try to explain, because he has seen this once and he knows. He will sit on the bench beside her and murmur something about always finding her in tears. She will try to laugh, but not even get halfway through before it turns into a breathy sob. And Dennis will say:<p>

"Whoever the bloke is this time, he's a bloody idiot."

And because the night has broken her, and because he has seen far too much, she will turn and crash into him, her lips seeking his, desperate for anyone to heal this emptiness inside of her. He will melt from surprise to willingness, hands cupping around her cheeks, her waist, her legs. She will grab his face and pull him as close as she can, because he is so _alive_ and it's almost like having a heart again. She will taste warmth and gentleness and acceptance and—

—salt-water tears.

They will remind her of how she doesn't deserve or even want his virtues; how she will break him no matter how gentle he is. She will seal her lips back together and pull away. Resting her forehead on his shoulder, she will say, "I don't love you."

Dennis will stroke her hair and return matter-of-factly, sadly, "I know.")


	5. hero boy and fire girl

**Pairing: Harry/Ginny**

**Prompt: Lead**

* * *

><p>Ginny remembers what lead tastes like. Sharp and somehow sweet, with a tang like blood. She remembers sitting in her father's garage—how did she get there? everything is so fuzzy—the old knobs and gadgets and pipes scattered around her. She reaches for the closest thing—a wooden rod, its paint chipped—and yanks it free from the bottom of the pile. She bangs it experimentally against the floor, gurgling at the noise it makes. Curious, she thrusts it into her mouth and begins to chew. <em>Sharp, tangy, somehow sweet. <em>Someone barges in—mother? father? early memories are so inaccurate—and wrenches the rod from her grasp. They lift her into the air, frantic, scolding, yelling, and Ginny begins to cry. There is a hurry and a rushing, and then there is white white white and hands hands hands and there the memory fades back into the blur of color and sound.

But she remembers the sweetness of the poison.

And she remembers the bitter, bitter aftertaste.

* * *

><p>Everyone knows the story of Harry&amp;Ginny. Hero boy and fire girl, torn apart by war, brought together by fate, destined for each other from the start. Except it's not their story, not really; cut out the names and it belongs to romeo&amp;juliet, princecharming&amp;princesslovely, not <em>real <em>people at all.

So hold up, scratch that darling, the Story of Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley is a different thing entirely.

To be fair, though, it starts out much the same. One blushing little girl? Check. One famous friend of brother? Check. Little girl catches sight of those too-green eyes and that tousled black hair and _oh, oh _it's got to be true love, right? She's so head-over-heels for this perfect image of a hero, and her heart goes thumpthumpthumping in double time every time he's near, and he's sweet and he's handsome and he loves her too—

Ah ah ah, not too fast, try not to get ahead of yourself, little fire girl. He hardly knows you exist, remember?

So she suffers in silence as her throat becomes too tight for breath and her ribs ache with the task of keeping her heart inside her chest. And then a diary drops into her lap, with a boy trapped inside the pages, and silence turns to ink-on-paper. It's all _Harry Harry Harry _until she's sure Tom must be sick of it, but he never shows impatience, not once. He's sweet and caring and he's always there—

There she goes again, giving her heart away because she can't bear to be alone, because she's such a stupid little girl.

So ink-on-paper turns to blood-on-hands to people-in-hospital to girl-in-chamber.

And then girl-in-chamber wakes up feeling hollow and cold, and Harry's _finally_ looking at her, but all she can think is that his eyes are all wrong and his hands are too warm. She sees the broken corpse of the diary and her mind burns with the word:

_Murderer._

* * *

><p>It's never the same after Tom, really. Nothing is, of course, but she can't look at him without seeing the ink-stained fang in his hand, a bloody token of his triumph. She's supposed to think of him as her savior because Tom = Bad and Harry = Good, but Understanding = Good and Killing = Bad, so nothing is ever as clear-cut as people would like it to be.<p>

But she's always been too proud for loneliness, so she never stops reeling him in. It's not chasing, exactly, (except it _is_) because she's far too strong for that and Ginny doesn't need _anyone_. (except she _does_)

And then suddenly the boyfriends and head tosses pay off because he's _kissing _her and they've become Harry&Ginny just like that.

So what's she supposed to do now?

Use him, of course. Harry is as close to Tom as she can get, and she doesn't care how selfish it is, because Ginny Weasley is _heartless_, remember?(isn't she?)

She doesn't expect to fall in love. But the days grow darker, and that's what she does. Falls deephardfast for the boy who knows that touching Tom is like tasting wine and his power is like a drug. Clutch closer the boy with the lightning scar because he's just like her, in a way; light mixed with darkness and blood-on-hands. They have been touched by the ink and the venom, and if they're together then their two torn pieces just might make a whole. It's all need and hunger, stained girl trying to be as good as she once was, trying to wash the ink away.

Harry is like lead, she decides. He gives her sweetness on the tip of her tongue. And maybe he's no good for her (read: _too_ good for her), but she'll hold him close, a little nugget of lead next to her heart, pumping through her veins, poisoning her breath by breath. She'll risk losing herself in him, abandon fearless heartless wildfire girl for a chance to savor that sweetness forever. If she doesn't let go, then maybe she won't have to know the bitter aftertaste ever again.

Ginny closes her eyes and wishes hard. She wishes for a happy ending she doesn't deserve.

(surprise: it doesn't work)

* * *

><p>It's so hard to keep the darkness out once Harry leaves. Day by day the ink bleeds through her pristine, paper-thin fantasy, reminds her of how damaged she is, how she will <em>never <em>be good and _never _be whole.

Tom returns in full force to prey on her weakness, the scattered whispers building into incessant taunts and dream upon dream upon dream.

She wakes up in the chamber, shivering, and turns her head. She cannot bear to look at him.

"Look at yourself, Ginevra. A trembling heap on the stone, so lost without your little boy hero," he sneers, and the mockery cuts to her core.

"Is this what you've become?" She can hear his footsteps echoing against the walls as he strolls closer. "A weak, whimpering damsel, waiting desperately for her prince?" He crouches down beside her. She draws breath after quivering breath, her heart careening into her throat. He smells like winter. (merlin, she misses that smell. why does she miss it?)

"You used to be so strong, Ginevra," he murmurs, one hand stroking her hair. She lets out a muffled sob. "You used to dance with power and hold hearts in the palm of your hand." The icy fingers skim her cheek before lifting a flaming lock of hair. "You were mighty." He twists the lock around his hand and pulls, getting his desired response: a cry of pain and her face turning towards his.

She sees those washed-out ghost eyes, and she is undone. (nothing changes) The tears burn and her lips part.

"I'm sorry," she whispers thickly.

"Don't apologize to me," he says gently, but he tugs his hand tighter, and she whimpers. "Apologize to Harry. You are such a disappointment to him, after all. You are so weak, so broken." His gaze travels the length of her body in distaste. He _tsks _and continues quietly, "No wonder he left you."

"He didn't leave because of me," she spits, hating him (wanting him). The tears spill down her bloodless cheeks. "He left because of _you_. Because of what you're doing out there."

Tom brings his eyes back to hers and smiles. "Is that what you tell yourself? Anything to make you feel better, I suppose. You were always so good at pretending."

"It's _true_," she insists. (_it is, isn't it?_)

He laughs, his face lighting up, and _how_ can someone so wrong and bad be so beautiful? "But it's not," he replies. "That's not really me out there, it's someone else entirely. Lord Voldemort wreaks havoc upon the Wizarding World, not Tom Riddle." He brings up his other hand to stroke her forehead as he says, "At least, that's what you think, isn't it? Poor little Ginevra, you never could bring yourself to think of us as the same person, could you?" He smiles at her like a predator grinning at its prey. "Voldemort, He Who Must Not Be Named, he could _never _be the same as your sweet, understanding Tom."

She closes her eyes, as if that will shut out his truths, the uneven, quiet sobs shaking her frame. But he's right—he's always right, isn't he?

His hand trails down from her forehead to her chin, cupping it. The other pulls the captured lock of hair even tighter. She clenches her teeth against a gasp of pain. (_hurt me, kill me, but never leave me_)

"Poor, poor Ginevra."

* * *

><p>By the time Harry and Hermione and Ron return, wands blazing and ready at last to save the world, she's positive she must be going insane. It's like second year all over again, the days filled with blood and blue eyes and pain. (so you can't really blame her if she seeks comfort in silver and green, can you?) She spends her nights with Tom, listening to him break her down piece by piece until she believes that the trio has left her behind forever. But return they do, and Hogwarts erupts into poison green and death red, her home, her prison, crumbling around her. She leaps headlong into the fray, firing curses and culling the Death Eater herd, eyes wild and dark. She inflicts pain and is in pain, but she is <em>feeling something at last<em>, she is fire girl once more. She is fierce she is strong **she is mighty**—

But Fred is, Fred is…

And she runs to the body, blasting people out of her way, the scream ripping from her throat like a knife. This is happening _all wrong_! They're supposed to fight and _win_, good over evil and light out of darkness and all of those fairytale clichés. (but she stopped believing in fairytales a long time ago, didn't she?) They're supposed to come out of it radiant and triumphant and _whole_. Instead she's left rocking over his body, a pale, wailing banshee, filling the war-torn air with her howls.

(but she hasn't been whole for a long time, has she?)

* * *

><p>There are no tears from her at the funeral. Her family, her friends, cluster weeping around her, but she stands ramrod with a spine like iron, eyes dark and hard and dry. (<em>look at her, look at how strong she is, the girl who refuses to feel pain<em>)

With the speeches over and the prayers said and his body in the ground (_it's not right it's not right Fred always loved the sky_), the people start to disperse, groups forming and scattering as they band together in their grief. She stays by the fresh grave, watching the ground, as if hoping somehow he'll burst through the soil, _Just joking, not really dead, I fooled you all, didn't I_? Instead Ginny feels a hand on her shoulder, and she turns to Harry's too-green eyes and tousled black hair and maybe it's not true love but by now she'll take whatever she can get.

She faces him, black and cold, with her palms open and upward, like a plea and a prayer. _Heal me,_ she says with her empty eyes and her trembling hands. _Save me_.

He takes her in his arms, and he tries his best to do so.

(surprise: it almost works)

* * *

><p><strong>Reviews, please? :) It would make me very happy.<strong>

**Next up is the final chapter!**


	6. headlong into the abyss

**Well, this is it! The last chapter. It's been a wonderful project, and it turned out to be a great chance for me to practice my dark!Ginny, who I find infinitely more interesting than her canon counterpart. **

**Also, I happen to have been cheating the challenge and turned the whole thing into a big Tom/Ginny fic. :3 My selfishness knows no bounds~**

**If you've been with this since the beginning, or even if you've just jumped on, please be so kind as to drop a review. They are food for my soul.**

**Pairing: Draco/Ginny**

**Prompt: Electricity**

**(Note: Title for this chapter stolen from the fabulous song of the same name by We Are Augustines)**

* * *

><p>She hates the boy with all her (not)heart.<p>

She does.

Ginny hates his sharp face and his mocking eyes and his twisted preaching of oh-so-holier-than-thou. She hated him from the moment he walked into her life in that bookstore, all snake and sneer. He's a coward and a bully and there's nothing, _nothing_ he's ever said or done that makes her believe different. There's nothing to like about his jagged edges and cruel words.

Too bad she has a nasty habit of falling in love with the people she hates.

* * *

><p>If you asked her to trace it back to where it started, she would close her eyes and plant her finger down at a random spot on the timeline, because she'll say she doesn't know where it went from hate to lust so any moment is as good as the next.<p>

(but she's a spectacular liar, always has been. it started in the darkness of a Hogwarts corridor, when she turned a corner and he was there; standing across from each other, lion girl and snake boy, the air between them thawed and they could see that each was here for the same reason of opening their hidden wounds into the night. but that wouldn't have changed a thing, except for the fact he stepped aside and let her pass, recognizing that _you are set for destruction and I will not stop you_. that is what left her with steel eyes on the mind)

If you asked him, he would scoff and accuse you of idiocy, because there is _no _way that _he_, prince of Slytherin, would soil his hands on _her_, slut of Gryffindor.

(he's not as good at lying as she is, though, because as he said it, his nostrils would flare and his impenetrable gaze would glisten strangely. it started in the bleakness of a sleepless night, when she stepped around the corner and they stopped there, two human pillars separated by family and war and hate, and she lit up the dark, gleaming like the peak of autumn. he saw the fierce hollowness in her black-brown gaze; saw it and recognized its reflection in himself. but she was more broken than he, so he stepped aside, let her pass, saying _you are set for destruction and I will not stop you_. but all this he might have forgotten, except that as she moved on she half-turned to hold his stare a moment longer, and he read _if you will not stop me, I dare you to join me. _that is what left him seeing red long after she had gone)

But the truth is that beginnings don't matter much, because in this roiling beast of a war—trapped inside the walls of the place that had once been their only safety—there is no time, only consuming numbness and cruel laughter and empty defiance. Here you mark the days by the fading of the bruises.

So the only important part is that no matter when or how, it _began_.

* * *

><p>They somehow find their way to another corner in the darkness, not so long after that first moment. (the bruises aren't even yellow yet)<p>

Frozen boy and burning girl stand across from each other, his chill and her heat mingling in the distance between them. He frees his tongue from the ice, snapping, "What are you staring at, _Weasley_?"

She takes in the sleep-circled eyes and the cutting cheekbones. He's all black and white and silver in the shadow-split moonlight. No blood. No color. "_You_, Malfoy," she says. "You look awful."

His lip curls, but his eyes remain the same. Dead dead eyes. "You're one to talk, Weaslette. All those hideous freckles and that _ghastly_ hair."

Ginny leans against the chilly stone, squinting at him slightly. He is not the intimidating, far-away, non-human he once seemed; he is instead a too-thin, too-scared boy trying oh so hard to cover his weaknesses. So for that reason she does not rise to the bait. "Let's not try to pretend, Malfoy. We're too old for petty insults like that. They have no place in a war." He opens his mouth, but she continues on without heed. "I only meant to point out that you don't seem to be taking very good care of yourself."

He shuts his mouth, swallowing his prepared insult. His jaw twitches and his forehead wrinkles. He cannot understand her, and it infuriates him. "What's it to you?"

She looks out the thin strip of a window, the moonlight slashing her face in half. She waits a moment before answering, playing with him. (oh how she loves this game) "Nothing, I suppose." She languidly turns her gaze back to him. There is the ghost of a flicker in his shut-down gaze. "But if you stop caring about your own well-being, let yourself go…that's dangerous, Malfoy. Why, anything could happen."

"Have you gone mad?" he demands, but she has already straightened up, looking ready to leave.

"Three times will be no coincidence," is all she says. And she moves forward.

As they pass, shoulder to shoulder, a spark leaps from her to him, him to her, and her spine tingles with the electricity.

(and _one, two_, the game begins)

* * *

><p>The meet a third time in the darkness. It is no coincidence.<p>

She folds her arms over her chest, something like a maybe-smile gracing her features. "Still looking as awful, I see." Her eyes flicker over his form before locking with his. The silver gaze is still as sullen and dead, and it disappoints her. So she baits him further. "So pale and thin. Haven't been sleeping well?" (if she were paying attention, she would realize how terrifyingly familiar this all is, Tom's words becoming her own)

"Still as rude, I see," he sneers back.

She takes a step closer, arms dropping to her sides. Tilting her head, she counters, "But you came, didn't you? You came to see me anyway."

"Proud enough to think the whole bloody world revolves around you, are you?"

But his nostrils flare and his lips keep twitching, so she knows that there is a core of fire inside of steeleyes-winterboy. Ginny takes another step towards him. They are less than a foot apart, and now there is something breaking through the iron curtain in his eyes. She (not)smiles again.

"Does this bother you, Malfoy?" She lets her dark eyes drift to his mouth, pressed into a thin white line. "Am I too close?" she whispers.

"Get the he—"

Except Ginny's ever so impatient, so she doesn't let him finish and instead melts the final frozen distance between them, melding mouth to mouth, ignoring his hands pressing on her shoulders and his sounds of protest. She presses her body closer—blazing, blazing like all the fires of autumn—seizing his face between her hands. And the friction of her touch sends a spark to ignite his sleeping core, because suddenly he's kissing her back with a fierceness rivaling her own, his hands are tangling into her summer-sunset hair, sending shots of pain flashing across her scalp. She gasps at her success; he turns them around and slams her against the wall. Her shoulders throb with the impact and the cold seeps through her thin pajama shirt, raising goose bumps all over her ivory flesh. Pantpantkisskiss and she's clawing at his chest. Kisskisspantpant and he's hitched her legs around his waist. They are not fiery lion girl and cold snake boy—they are flashflood, ice-melt, chimera, unable to tell where one ends and the other begins. She breaks away, gasping for breath, and his mouth travels down her throat, leaving a path of burnt skin. His lips reach the hollow of her collarbone. She threads her fingers through his hair and yanks his head upwards to capture his mouth again. Teethtonguelips and she shoves his face away, staring hard at him. He is a mess: hair disheveled, cheeks ruddy, eyes like supernovas. He is pulsing with blood and color and venom.

"Anything could happen," Ginny repeats, her mockery punctuated by ragged breaths.

His lip curls in a snarl and his mouth crashes back onto hers.

* * *

><p>Ginny, more than half-mad with Harry's absence, orients herself to the path of self-destruction.<p>

Draco, more than half-dead from the darkness around him, joins her.

They drag each other down into the abyss and rend the sky with their lightning.

* * *

><p>They collide anywhere and everywhere, painting the darkness with crackling radiance from corridor to corridor, bathroom to closet, tower to tower. There are little words spoken in their encounters, only tearing hands and burning mouths. (the feverish imprints of eager fingers are added to their list of bruises) When they do talk, it is of families and of war; of the fast-encroaching darkness. She kisses him with eyes shut tight, because without his pale colors glowing in front of her, it's not so hard to pretend it's a darker, green-eyed boy. (except sometimes the green eyes are so very pale, like forget-me-nots and winter)<p>

Then she forgets all about Harry. (She forgets about _Tom_.) She forgets names and families and wars; she knows nothing but the pain of his grasping fingers in her hair, the heat of his breathing, and the synchronicity of them, black and white and red and silver in the moonlight.

* * *

><p>In the daytime, there is nothing but ice between them; when their eyes meet there is no flash or spark, nothing to betray their electric nights. She knows they are enemies deeply in hate (fabulous liar, remember?), that her hunger for his taste—thunder, blood, poison, unbearable dark—is nothing more than an attempt to fill the crater Harry left behind. It has <em>nothing<em> to do with his sharp face behind her eyelids. (_nothing _to do with seeking the echo of a darker, more dangerous boy) She knows that he feels the same.

Until—

"You! Weasley!"

She flinches at the harsh call of her name, the way that Alecto Carrow makes it sound like an Unforgiveable. But she hardens her jaw and walks stiffly forward, locking eyes with the Death Eater. She refuses to look at the cowering first year at his side.

"Yes, Professor?" She spits the title. His dark eyes narrow.

"Perhaps you have learned your lesson since last time, blood traitor," he hisses, grabbing the collar of the first year. He looks from the eleven-year-old to Ginny. "Perform the Cruciatus on this student." There is no yielding in that voice. It is an order.

Her gaze travels to the terrified, trembling boy, his face pale with fear. She looks up at Carrow.

"No."

"I'll tell you one more time, _Weasley_," he snarls. "_Crucio _this boy."

Her hands tighten into fists. "No."

He smiles an ugly smile. "Very well, then." He releases the boy, shoving him back towards the crowd of students. Without breaking her gaze, he calls, "Malfoy! Get up here."

She feels Draco hesitate before he joins them at the front of the classroom. Her heart is racing; she can't explain why.

"Yes," he starts, but his voice is dry and weak. He clears his throat and tries again. "Yes, Professor?"

"Show _Miss Weasley _how the Cruciatus is done."

Her eyes flicker towards him uncontrollably, she see his nostrils flare and his lips quiver.

"Excuse me…sir?" he says, voice tight.

Carrow sneers and turns towards Draco, spitting in contempt, "_Crucio_ her, you stupid boy." Then he snatches her robes with one bony hand and thrusts her to the ground. She cries out as her elbows crack against the stone. Gulping, she looks up at the pair. Draco stares at the floor. He slowly pulls his wand out from his robes, fingers white and trembling. Time stretches out.

"Do it," Carrow orders.

He raises his head and points his wand at her. Ginny locks eyes with Draco and sees only a too-thin, too-scared boy trying with all his might not to be weak. Her chest heaves as her heart rate soars. _Do it_, she pleads. _Do it. Don't hesitate. There's no reason for you not to hurt me. We hate each other. _

His Adam's apple bobs and he licks his lips. He grips his wand tighter, readjusts his stance.

_We are nothing_.

His brow furrows; his eyes gleam strangely.

_We are _nothing.

His mouth opens slightly, and she sees him quiver with shaking breaths.

_Nothing._

And then she sees the flare of a supernova in his irises and no, no he's lowering his wand and_ nononono _he's shaking his head and NO this isn't right because they are **nothing**—NO NO NO he does not belong here on the ground beside her, sharing her pain, eyes finding hers amid the writhing agony. _Nothing _does not belong side by side in the daylight.

But _how_ can they be nothing if this is happening?

(what are they if not nothing?)

* * *

><p>She wants anything but to see him again that night. However, it would be more agonizing still to lie in bed and wait for Tom to claim her dreams, so she sets out into the darkness like always. She tries to avoid anywhere they meet, but they have touched every corner, breathed in each classroom. She moves from place to place without stopping, knowing that as she walks the corridors restlessly he does the same.<p>

Inevitably, they collide.

Ginny spots his lean form illuminated against the window as she enters the classroom, and she whirls back towards the door, hoping she can escape before he—

His wand snaps up and the door closes in her face. She rattles the handle desperately, pulse pounding. Whippet-quick, she pulls out her wand, but just as swiftly it's flying out of her grasp and into his. Ginny swallows heavily and leans her forehead against the wood.

"Let me out." A demand.

"No." Just as stubborn.

Slowly, she turns to face him. Her lips tighten as she stares him down. "Unlock this bloody door," she snarls.

He raises one eyebrow stoically and casts a _Muffliato_ before pocketing his wand. "Are you deaf? I said no."

Ginny lets out a shaking breath; her heart is lodged in her throat. "What do you want?" she asks, and her voice trembles. (why is she so scared? why is this different from any other fling?)

"You know bloody well what I want," he spits. She notices the fresh bruise under his left eye, a dark shadow beneath the quicksilver. "Today. We need to talk."

"I don't want to."

Draco sighs in exasperation and runs a hand through his hair. "Don't be a child," he says, weary. "You know it's necessary."

Ginny takes several steps towards him, the stone floor ruthlessly cold under her bare feet. "What is there to talk about, Malfoy?" She forces out his surname. It is a strange shape in her mouth after so many nights of his first name whispered and moaned. "You had a moment of weakness. Of cowardice. I was hurt just the same, even if not by your hand. It doesn't make a difference."

His face tightens with rage. "Cowardice? You think I took that _Crucio _out of bloody _cowardice_?" He strides forward, eyes glittering, blazing. "You think I was too _scared _to curse you?"

"What other reason could there be?" she cries. Her slender fingers curl into fists, the nails biting into her palms.

"You bloody _idiot_!" They are practically nose to nose, the air sizzling between them. "Ginny, I—"

Something within her breaks.

"Don't!" she yells, scrambling backwards, away from him and his silver eyes and the way he said her name. Her hands slam over her ears. "Don't you _dare_!" Her shoulders heave. She is brilliant with her anger. "You can't call me that! I can't be Ginny, you can't be Draco, there _can't _be a reason you didn't curse me!" She brings her head up to his gaze, eyes dark as a midnight storm. She flings her arms down. "We are _nothing_!" she screams. (because if they are not nothing, that will have meant she lost control, and losing control is dangerous; it _kills_)

But Draco does not take no for an answer; he is just as proud as she is, so he barrels through the boiling distance and solders their lips together. She writhes, she protests, she beats against him, but he holds her to him fast, clutching her far too tightly. He bites her lip. She tastes blood. Maybe that's the catalyst, because before she can stop herself she is pulling him closer instead of pushing him away, biting him back, feeling every line of his body against hers, and they are lightning, lightning, lightning.

(they made an unspoken promise to destroy each other, and that will not be broken)

* * *

><p>Harry returns, the battle rages, the war ends, and suddenly the world is so much more complicated, full of brokenness and brilliance all at once. She travels through her grief and departs into the life she always (once) dreamed of. He begins the brutal road to redemption. She expects to forget him. She <em>tries <em>to forget him.

But he has left an imprint, a glowing afterimage against the insides of her eyelids. There is a greedy spark inside of her, left gnawing and unsatisfied despite her _dream_ career and her _dream_ boyfriend. She misses the sharpness of his face and the burning desperation of his mouth. Harry is warm and safe. (and _good_, isn't that enough?) There is no danger in the loving green eyes. (stupid little girl, she's always wanted what she can't have)

She doesn't know how (and neither does he), but they find each other, two damaged people searching for the one thing that held them together in hard times. The war may have passed but the darkness within them has not, and they need their self-made lightning to chase the shadows away. A chance meeting, a scrap of paper with a discreet address slipped from hand to hand, a crackle of static as fingers brush, and _three, four_, the game goes on.

* * *

><p>Months flow by and she attempts to heal herself stitch by stitch. (Harry for the pain, Draco for the hunger.) Eventually, the time comes when the ink seeps out of her dreams and the whispers fade from her ears. She thinks for the briefest of moments she might be free.<p>

Ginny wakes up amid water and stone and rippling light. She sits up and puts her head in her hands, fingers threading through the red locks. (you stupid little girl, you'll never be free)

"How dare you," Tom intones, and she snaps up to look at him, her blood freezing at the tone of his voice. This is not velvet mockery or silk charm. This rage, raw and cold.

"You thought you could rid yourself of me?" he seethes, striding forward. His eyes burn. His face is sharp and white. She trembles against the wet floor, heart pounding. Tom reaches down a vice-like hand and wrenches her to her feet. She is too full of terror to even cry out in pain as delicate blue bruises bloom underneath his fingers. His radiant face blazes a mere foot away from hers.

Tom's lip wrinkles in utter scorn, and a lock of dark hair falls over his marble forehead. Spitting each word, he continues, "You thought that through empty lust and hero worship that you could wash me from your veins?"

There is a wand in his other hand, suddenly, and he hisses an incantation; a line of fire springs to life across her palm. Ginny gasps, flinching, and looks down at her hand, instinctively balled into a fist. She opens it slowly and watches the darkness seep from the fresh cut, something much blacker than blood staining her fingers. Bringing her eyes back up to his triumphant sneer, she feels something building within her chest, sharp and hard and angry. She opens her mouth and doesn't know what's going to come out.

Her laughter fills the Chamber, echoing harshly against the curved ceiling.

Tom's eyes flicker uncertainly. His smirk falters. She relishes having the upper hand and shines on him a vicious grin. Ginny laughs again, and his grip on her arm tightens further. She glances down at his hand briefly, smiling, and then brings her gaze to his.

"Jealous, Tom?"

There is an inhuman roar, and abruptly she finds herself braced against the stone, the left side of her face hot with agony. Laughing still, she staggers to her feet and turns to face him. His body is taut with anger, spots of color painting his dead cheeks.

"I did not realize even you were capabale of such impudence," he spat.

Ginny only chuckles and shakes her head. (it's quite possible she's going insane, but that wouldn't be anything new, would it?) "Poor Tom," she mocks, and she loves the way his eyes spring to life with his fury. "Are you going to throw a tantrum because someone's stolen your favorite toy?"

He rushes forward like a blizzard, one hand grips the back of her neck, and the last thing she sees is an endless winter sky before his mouth seals itself over hers. Her heart explodes and she is undone, all of the fight fleeing her system under his touch; a hard cold arm braces against the small of her back as her knees crumble. His furious mouth parts her lips with no resistance, and the taste of him (_bloodwineinkvenomdeathdark_) winds a smoldering, sinuous path over her tongue and down her throat—curls and nestles somewhere in the core of her, floods her with such delectable poison from each trembling fingertip to every crackling hair. Her mind pulses in a kaleidoscopic whirl of black, blue, white, red, the colors that are him and her and _them_, and she cannot stop herself from tilting her mouth into his any more than she can command herself to stop breathing. His hand moves roughly from her neck to the back of her skull, strong, slender fingers breaching the bright spill of her hair in white crests. The other hand yanks up her shirt to feel the smooth skin of her waist. She bends into him, hungry, losing herself. His teeth graze her lip. Her hands tighten against his chest. He pulls her loose cotton top to expose one white shoulder. She shivers and fumbles at his collar, unbuttoning, desperate, _wanting_—

Tom laughs a dark, breathless laugh as he pulls away, the cruelest of smiles curving his flushed lips. She reaches out for his shirt, still drunk on him. His fingers close around her chin in a brutal grip, and her hand stops mid-journey. She drags her fevered gaze from his mouth to his eyes. The pale blue irises are as cold as ever, lit only by contempt and conquest. His thumb rubs a slow circle against the place where her neck meets her shoulder, and he watches her shatter beneath his fingers.

"You are _mine_, Ginevra," Tom whispers. He lets his face drift towards hers until she can feel his breath on her cheeks. She wants to weep and scream and die and run as far from him as her legs will carry her. She _does_. _(liar, liar, heart on fire_)

"Never forget it."

She wakes, turns, and sobs over the edge of the bed, her fingers curling into claws against the sheets. It takes an hour and a half for the jerking howls and hard breaths to fade, leaving her only with red eyes and a raw throat. (and the memory of blue, and stained linen where her palm touched it)

Later, she tells Harry the bandage on her hand is from Quidditch.

Draco doesn't ask about the bruises.

* * *

><p>Ten years have passed, and she has a husband and a child, he a wife and new beginning. By all rights, they should be happy, or something close. Instead, he reserves a room, and she Apparates there under the ever-reliable cover of darkness. Ginny squints a moment as the unsettling sensation fades; he watches impassively from where he sits in the armchair. She turns to face him, saying, "It's been a while, Draco." Her head tilts towards her left shoulder. "You look tired."<p>

He runs a hand through his pale hair, grey gaze glinting above dark half-moons of skin. "It's the middle of the ruddy night," he replies, mocking. "What do you expect?"

She cocks an eyebrow as she shucks her coat, tossing it on the table and walking towards him. "That's your own fault, really. No one forces you to come."

Draco—older, softer, sadder, but somehow not so different than ten years ago—looks at her a long moment before standing up to meet her. Something that might have been a smile on any other face in any other circumstance curves his lips. "But what would you do with yourself then, _Ginny_?" He takes a step closer; she feels the electricity leap and sizzle between them.

"Well," she says lightly, gaze drifting to his mouth, "I'd rather not find out."

"Then here I am. And here you are."

She sizzles and he melts, they bend and they break, they crack and burn and tumble over the tingling expanse of the other, and clothes are just one more barrier that will not keep them apart.

* * *

><p>Ginny lays on her side amid the cotton sheets, cool with drying sweat, one guilty finger tracing a circle on the pillow. She feels a breath expand Draco's chest against her back, muscle on muscle and skin on skin. His lean arm is warm, draped over her midriff. She tries awfully hard not to let herself think too much in their encounters, but now the thoughts rise through her like bubbles towards the surface. They break, gently, into the front of her mind, and her pale brow creases. Hooking her foot around his ankle, she says, "I'm sorry, Draco." She doesn't need to say why; the meaning is as clear as if written in the air: <em>For this. For me. For you.<em>

His soft chuckle reverberates through her. "Like hell."

He's right, of course.

She's not.

* * *

><p>(<em>it doesn't matter, in the end, that she never stopped running<em>._ we all fall down._)

* * *

><p><em>let's say we were better than our bodies were found<br>and I saw her but, there she goes, and there she goes  
>her bright face, black smile, we can't change that<em>

(**A Story for Supper—Lydia**)


End file.
